


When the Battle was Over

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:32:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle that was supposed to end the war resulted in the sons of Fëanor losing everything but each other and their curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Battle was Over

Macalaurë watched his brother. Maitimo perhaps assumed that he was asleep, he thought. Or more likely he simply did not care. Maitimo himself hadn’t slept at all, not since the battle, or if he had then Macalaurë had not seen him. He sat, staring into the fire, unblinking. It had been the same for the last two weeks, ever since they had heard the news, in a long and confused message passed on by group of their own scattered, wounded soldiers taking shelter in the forest, who had it second or third hand. But one point of the message was all too clear. The High King is dead. Long live the High King. Impersonal and direct. He had glanced nervously at Maitimo when they heard it. His brother’s face had frozen, every muscle taught with shock. But his eyes told another story, of one who finds out what he has long dreaded, but suspected to be true. There was pain there, an infinite well of agony, and a kind of tortured hollowness that Macalaurë had not seen in his eyes since he had been brought back to them, broken and scarred and nearly unrecognisable.

They had split up, after that, all of the brothers going their separate ways. It was safer like that. But Macalaurë stayed with Maitimo. He did like the thought of his eldest brother being alone, not like this, not now. He did not trust himself to imagine what Maitimo might do.

There had been anger at first, anger and incomprehension. A sort of fire burned in Maitimo’s eyes that reminded Macalaurë all too clearly of their father, near the end. He would scream curses to the Valar, or would direct his rage at Macalaurë until his voice was hoarse. Macalaurë would bear it, letting the stinging words cut at him, in the tenuous hope that it would help his brother. And then, suddenly, Maitimo stopped. He simply collapsed into a sitting position, silent tears streaming down his face, mumbling apologies. Macalaurë did not know what to say or do to comfort him. How do you console one who has known so much pain, unimaginable pain? There was still so much that lay between them, even after all this time.

After that the silence had begun. Macalaurë didn’t know which was worse; anger or anguish or… well, nothing. Maitimo’s face was blank, his eyes glassy as he stared into their small fire at night, reflecting the dancing flames. He didn’t sleep. His movements were mechanical, and when he spoke at all it was in short, clipped sentences, on practical issues.

It drew back old memories, this silence. Macalaurë remembered a time, long ago, when he had been only a child. He had found a crystal globe that their father had made, a rejected result of his experiments in the purification of glass. It was cracked, tiny hairline fissures running through it, but it held together. Or it had until Macalaurë had knocked it slightly, when it had smashed into a thousand glittering fragments.

That was how his brother was, he thought. Hard and unyielding, but brittle, so brittle. Macalaurë had the impression that if Maitimo looked whole from outside, then it would only take the slightest thing, the smallest impact to break him. It was not a comfortable thought.

He wondered what they would do now. They would have to hide, for a while at least, he knew. Things had gone wrong so suddenly. How little time was needed to take away all that they had built, everything stable in their lives. It was almost frightening how quickly they had fallen, down into this darkness and a life of wandering and uncertainty. He remembered, allowing himself to go back to the times of relative safety, living together at unassailable Himring, if only for a moment.

————

Maitimo burst into Macalaurë’s room, the door slamming open, startling him. He had been writing, but now his head snapped up from his work in alarm.

“Macalaurë! Look at this.” Maitimo’s voice was loud and urgent, his face grave. For once he spoke Quenya, which meant it was probably a private matter, thought Macalaurë.

“What is it? What has happened?”

Maitimo held a piece of paper in his hand, which he now thrust in front of his brother.

“A letter. If we can trust it, it seems that the daughter of Thingol and her mortal lover have taken a Silmaril from the iron crown of the Dark Lord himself! Although how that can be true I do not know. Also, Findaráto is dead, and Tyelko and Curvo have been sent from Nargothrond in disgrace. They’re on their way here now, I should think.”

Macalaurë was speechless, trying to take all of this in. He read the letter himself, and then read it again. Then he looked at his brother. “If we can trust it, you say. Can we trust it? And if so, what does this imply from the point of view of… of the Oath?”

Maitimo sighed, frowning a little and running his fingers through his hair distractedly. “I am inclined to think that we can trust it. But if Tyelko and Curvo come here, then they will be able to give us the truth. Or,” his face became steely, anger burning in his eyes “it will be better for them if they tell me the truth. Damn them! What do they think they are doing? Did they imagine that…” he tailed off into silence. Neither of the brothers was sure what to think. Nothing seemed quite as certain anymore. For his part, Macalaurë was glad he was not in the position of Tyelkormo or Curufinwë when they returned.

Eventually Macalaurë broke the silence. “You didn’t answer the rest of my question. What of the Oath?”

Maitimo gave him a long, hard look. “The Oath… I do not know.”

They lapsed back into silence as Macalaurë reread the letter again.

“Nelyo?”

“Yes?”

“Have you considered… I mean, this proves that Moringotto is assailable. If they could do it, then with all of our strength… why can’t we? We could defeat him, once and for all. End this.” He watched his brother’s face, trying to gauge his reaction. When Maitimo spoke, it was with a quiet intensity.

“We would need more strength than we could possibly gather if we were to attempt it by military might. It is not possible.”

“It may be. What of the Naugrim? And the men of the East? They may fight for you. And there are Moryo and Pityo’s people. And Findekáno - ”

“I will not involve Findekáno” interrupted Maitimo. “This is our fight. He has lost enough.”

“Nelyo, Findekáno is our King. You cannot try to shelter him. And it most certainly is his fight. Breaking Moringotto, taking the Silmarilli, freeing the Noldor from constant danger… it’s all one. Findekáno will help, if you ask him.”

Maitimo looked troubled. “I know” he said quietly.

————

_It made sense, Maitimo knew. The combined strength of the united peoples of Beleriand would almost certainly be enough. And it would form permanent bonds of friendship between those peoples, as he had worked so long to do. But the risks… he pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes shut, thinking. Burned into the red glow of his eyelids were three blazing white spots, faint now, but ever-present across his vision. They had been there since he had seen the iron crown, the three jewels bright, so bright, leaving their impression on his eyes. He had thought the spots would would fade as he healed, and they did. They faded almost entirely. But sometimes, when he was angry or worried, there they would be again, a reminder, a mockery. An impediment to clear thinking. He scowled and rubbed his eyes, pushing down hard with his knuckles._

_Perhaps this was the way. Perhaps this was how they truly healed the divisions within their people, and perhaps he had to be the one to do it. Truly he did not know. Holding Himring, keeping watch from his outpost… that was one thing, but marching in open force against the Dark Lord, that was quite another._

_He opened his eyes. He would ask Findekáno’s advice. Maitimo hated himself for drawing him into this, but he also knew that Macalaurë was right. Findekáno was involved already. And his opinion, even just the sight of a letter bearing his handwriting, would be a comfort. Maitimo sat down at his desk, took out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his pen into the ink pot, already thinking about how to begin._

————

The wide oak desk in Maitimo’s study was strewn with paper, letters and plans and lists. In the centre was a large map, annotated neatly in red ink. How much paper it took to plan a military operation, thought Macalaurë. It was encouraging, to see it all laid out like this. Most of the writing was Maitimo’s cramped hand, small and neat and meticulous. There was also Macalaurë’s own flowing script, with its slight flourishes. And there was a stack of letters in Findekáno’s bold, round lettering. But soon, Macalaurë knew, the paper would turn to swords, the letters to soldiers, marching, fighting, dying. But it would be worth it, he knew. The operation was well planned. They were strong. Maitimo was animated, his eyes bright and his fingers ink stained, immersing himself in the details wholeheartedly.

Better times were to come, Macalaurë was sure. He could not help but hope.

————-

How naïve they had been, he thought bitterly. It seemed an age ago now. Had they really thought that their strength would be enough? Had they really expected loyalty? It seemed like a cruel joke. And now their hopes were in rags, lying on the battlefield with Findekáno’s crushed and broken body. Where should they go from here? Where  _could_  they go?

He realised that he was not going to get any more sleep tonight. Sighing, he got up and sat next to Maitimo, picking up a stick and stirring the remains of the fire. It glowed briefly, illuminating their faces. His brother didn’t react, didn’t even blink. Macalaurë began to hum a tune under his breath, not even thinking about what he was singing, anything to fill the dreadful silence that divided them.

That silence was thick and stifling, an almost physical barrier, pressing in on them. But at least they weren’t being hunted, for now. They sat there by the fire, side by side until the weak early morning sunlight began to bleed through the trees, signalling that it was again time for them to move on.


End file.
